Beneath Her Ice

The ring never left the box.

But it didn't stay in the drawer, either.

Instead, Eliza Darcy wore it on a delicate platinum chain — close to her skin, hidden just beneath her silk blouses and power dresses. It lay against her sternum, a secret weight. A promise not yet spoken, but undeniably felt.

Not engagement.

Not yet.

But not nothing.

Will never asked.

She never explained.

It just was — like oxygen between them.

It was Charlotte who noticed first.

They were sitting at a rooftop café, splitting a lemon tart and sipping espresso between meetings. Eliza leaned forward to make a point, and the chain slipped from her blouse just enough to glint in the sunlight.

Charlotte blinked. Then grinned like the devil in Prada.

"You finally joined the cult of feelings," she teased, eyes fixed on the barely-there sparkle. "And here I thought you were emotionally bulletproof."

Eliza arched a brow, sipping her espresso without flinching. "It's a necklace."

"It's the necklace. You think I don't recognize velvet box energy when I see it?"

Eliza didn't answer. Which, of course, was the answer.

Charlotte reached across the table and gently tapped the silver at her collarbone. "You planning a royal announcement?"

Eliza looked away, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "No announcements. Not yet."

"Just a quiet, constant maybe?"

"Just... a yes I'm learning how to live with."

Charlotte sat back, eyes softening. "I hope you know it's okay to want it, Eliza. Not because you're supposed to. But because you do."

Eliza didn't reply.

But she reached for the necklace and closed her fingers around the ring like it was a talisman.

Because Charlotte was right.

She did want it.

That night, Will found her on the balcony, wind teasing her robe open, eyes on the skyline like it was keeping her secrets.

He wrapped his arms around her from behind.

"Long day?"

"Complicated," she murmured, leaning into him.

His fingers traced the chain resting against her chest. "You wore it."

"I never took it off."

He rested his chin on her shoulder. "That's all I needed to know."

She turned in his arms, lips brushing his throat. "It's not an answer."

"No," he agreed, "but it's the right direction."

They kissed slowly, deeply, the kind of kiss that says stay even when no one's leaving.

And when they fell into bed, clothes peeling like second skins, there was no urgency — just worship.

She let him in like never before — not just her body, but her heart. Her fears. Her ache to be understood without ever having to explain.

And when he whispered, "I'll wait as long as you need," she buried her face against his chest and finally let herself believe it.

Because this wasn't a deadline.

It was a love story.

One that didn't need permission.

Just time.

And faith.

And the quiet courage of a yes worn against the heart — even before it was spoken.